Angel's Sojourn: Hannibal x Reader x Will

Chapter 11. Crème Brûleé

To an artist like you, there is no sight more aesthetically pleasing than the direct presentation of two opposites. This bold style was one you happily frequented, capturing the beauty in say, a crimson drop of blood against a bed of pure white snow, or an open gushing wound surrounded by brilliant irises. Your ability to find elegance in both contrasting points of view was profound, and simply second nature. It always takes less than a moment and barely any effort to fabricate and separate two varying focal points, and less work still to make them come to life.

Your father had never been anything but amazed by this aesthetic choice, and attributed your dark and gloomy styles to the childhood that you were forced to abandon after your sister's death. His was always a vibrant and distinctive style- no surprise there. Ever the optimist, his own inner hopes and dreams were reflected many times over in the countless faces and landscapes he'd created over the years. Your own creations however seemed to reflect the absolute worst in you- a quality you hadn't known you'd possessed until Dr. Lecter had inadvertently brought it to light- the way you sought out beauty in the terrible things that can never help themselves from crossing your mind.

Your father's paintings had many times been described as gateways to perfect worlds, or visions of life viewed through vivid childlike wonder. You'd always thought that if his own paintings are portals to a better world, then yours are closed windows, looking over and out into the darkest corners of your mind, sometimes iced over with a metaphoric dismal frost, or the thoughtful dappling of hundreds of raindrops.

But always the startling melee of visceral colors paired with whatever radiant, sunny tones you feel compliment such a visage of violence and brutality.

One such painting hangs prominently in your living room, an immense oil portrait done in the preferred style of your adolescence- fantastic realism. The product was incredibly surreal to begin with, and even after a few modifications made sporadically throughout the years it has still maintained a dreamlike quality, with many irrelevant details that draw the eye away from the tortured figure of a partially clothed woman with pearlescent skin and crimson hair.

The hair itself is muted significantly, so as not to take away from the rich and colorful details that accentuate the chaos and disorder around her. Her skin is eerily lifelike yet somehow pallid and cold against the warm tones of the bed she's lying on, her legs twisting in the sheets. Her thin and delicate hands claw at her chest, and clutch at a mottling of maroon and gory shades of red that turn into glossy twists of sinew upon closer inspection.

The girl holding her heart in her hands is not alone in the picture, and the darkness behind her seems to churn and boil with a silent and toxic evil. Ebony limbs stretch forth from the blackness and long spindly fingers reach out to twist in her fiery hair. The shadow figures melt into the darkness... No, they are the darkness, and their eyes smolder.

Paired rather contrastingly with these hellish elements are countless bundles of lavender and lilac, bound together crudely with string and strewn about the imaginary bedroom randomly with extreme care. The soft purples provide some much needed relief from the harshness of the other colors, as well as some neutral tones peaking through here and there between the flowers. If one were to look close enough, they would see these earth tones begin to take on the shapes of various metacarpals and phalanges nestled snuggly amongst the blossoms.

The whole painting had taken around 6 weeks to complete, and yet the naming process is what proved to be infinitely more vexing. After weeks of careful consideration, a visit from a friend soon settled the matter, and 'Lament' was given its name through a rather snide comment, happily ignored. You thought the title quite apt, and embraced its darkness with a light heart.